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‘ ColaS, . 

NEBRASKA POETS. 


ONB HUNDRBD RA.GBS OB BRA.IRIB 
BOBMS, 


COLUMBIAN EDITION. 



1893 : ^ 

Megeath Stationery Company, 
Omaha, Neb. 



% 


COPYEIGHT, 1893. 




« 



THE CONTRIBUTORS. 


W. H. Alexander, (page 34). Mr. Alexander does not claim any prominence in the 
field of literature, but he has earned, nevertheless, a creditable reputation as a forci- 
ble and graceful writer, having been a liberal contributor to several prominent jour- 
nals upon political, historical and social topics. He is a close observer, a careful 
reader, and an excellent speaker. He has held several positions of trust, and is now 
surveyor of customs at Omaha. Mr. Alexander has written a number of poems, 
most of which have been published, but without the author’s signature, and it may be 
of interest to readers who recall any or all of the brief numbers selected for this vol- 
ume, to learn for the first time who wrote them. 

Mrs. Emily Shuman (page 9), though an easterner by birth, has passed most of her 
life west of the Missouri, and mostly in Nebraska. The public schools and an 
especial training in music brought out her natural abilities. Mrs. Shuman is of a 
happy, impulsive disposition, an optimist, a lover of nature. She was married in 
1883, and the sulisequent cares of a home were brightened by two promising little 
girls whose very existence has furnished inspiration for their mother’s pen. Mrs. 
Shuman says that of her literary pursuits hardly a beginning has been made, but 
this will scarcely be believed by those who note the clearness of vision and the tender- 
ness of nature manifested in the works of hers here printed. 

Mattie Cress Stanchfield (page 67) was born January 8, 1853, near Center Point, 
Iowa, and is of Scotch-German descent. In childhood her advantages for gaining an 
education were limited; the death of her father deprived her of entering college, a de- 
sire long entertained. She commenced teaching at the age of sixteen and since then 
has taught a number of terms. Although her first poem was written while attending 
school most of lier verses have been written during the past two years. She is a firm 
believer in equality and reform and has written a number of articles on these subjects 
for the press. August 12, 1875, she married H. J. Stanchfield, moved to Nebraska in 
1885, and now lives at Rushville, he being county superintendent of Sheridan County. 

Hattie H. Lake (page 91) was born on the “old homestead,” five miles north of 
Homer, in Dakota County, Nebraska, January 6, 1874. Having two homes, one with 
her parents on the farm, and one with an uncle and aunt in town, she had the advan- 
tage of both district and graded schools, after which she attended the Fremont Nor- 
mal School, of Fremont, Nebraska. Since the autumn of 1891 she has been employed 
as a teacher in the county schools. Her compositions, both prose and verse, have 
been printed by the leading local papers. 

Lillie Hudson (page 43) was born on the Shore of Rock Lake in Wisconsin, in 1854. 
She early manifested a faculty for versifying and has developed it to an extent. 

(’harles W. Allen (page 37) was born September 10, 1851, in Noble County, Indiana. 
His parents moved to Iowa when he was one year old. At the age of fifteen years he 
went to Kansas. In 1871 he left Wichita, Kansas, then a village, going to Cheyenne, 
Wyoming, with a herd of Texas cattle. He removed from Wyoming to Western Ne- 
braska, settling at Valentine in 1883; in 1885 he founded the Chadron Democrat; 
disposing of it in 1891, when he went into the stock business in South Dakota, in 
which business he is still engaged, and is now postmaster at Pine Ridge. 


4 


NBBRASKA POBTS 


C. W. Stewart (page 56) was born in the village of Manchester, Vermont, March 21, 
1847, and spent the most of the early years of his life in the city of Glens Falls, N. Y., 
until at the age of 17 he enlisted in Company H, 192d N. Y. Infantry, serving until his 
regiment was mustered out in the latter part of 1865. Like his ancestors on both 
sides he has always taken a deep interest in politics. It was by reason of this taste 
for politics that Mr. Stewart first discovered that he had a faculty for writing verses. 
His efforts in that direction have been principally in the nature of political satire — 
which he regards as his best productions. Many of his pieces have from time to time 
been published in the Adams County Democrat and the Hastings Tribune. He has 
written a number of poems on other topics but until the publication of this work has 
never offered them to the public. 

Lucy Martin Buleock (page 99) is the eldest daughter of the late C. D. Martin, fam- 
iliarly known as “Father Martin” throughout Nebraska. Her age is thirty-eight 
years. She is a member of the W. C. T. U., and a strong temperance writer and 
elocutionist. 

Mrs. Mary B. Hoffman (page 29) came to Nebraska in the earlier days. She has 
been a resident of Madison County for several years and is now postmistress at New- 
man Grove, having held the office throughout the (develand and Harrison adminis- 
trations. 

Florence Bailey Farnsworth (page 64), the eldest daughter of Hon. R. G. Bailey, 
was born in Mt. Carroll, Illinois, was educated at the Mt. Carroll Seminary, and for 
five years taught in the public schools of that state. She early showed a love for 
poetry, and her first efforts in verse were written and published at the age of fourteen 
years; she even at that time receiving kind commendation from the editors of the 
periodicals to which she became a regular contributor. Mrs. Farnsworth has been in 
Nebraska about ten years, during which lime she has written much for the press, 
especially of this state. 

John Cupp Lowe (page 81) has the honor of being not only one of the youngest, but 
one of the very few native Nebraska poets. Near the picturesque little village of 
Stella, Nebraska, he was born December 6, 1873, where he receivd his early education. 
In 1891 he removed to Omaha, where he has since been connected with the business 
colleges in the capacity of instructor of phonography, devoting his spare moments 
to literary pursuits. By his indomitable will, energy and ambition, he has met with 
unwonted, though merited success. 

Katie Nehf (page 84) was born at River Forest, a suburb of Chicago, Illinois, in 1867, 
where she lived until the spring of 1878, when her parents removed to Sutton, Clay 
County, Nebraska, where she has lived ever since. 

John Edoar Westley (page 18), eldest son of Rev. Joseph Westley, D. D., of Alli- 
ance, Nebraska, was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, February 22, 1855. When about 
two years old his parents removed to Illinois, residing in different parts of the state 
until the fall of 1871, when they removed to Nebraska, locating three miles north-east 
of the city of Grand Island, on a homestead, ^here he resided with his parents until 
the fall of 1887, when he removed with his parents to Salem, Richardson County, 
Nebraska. He was married September 15, 1878, to Miss Nellie A. Cad\ , of the same 
city; two sons and two daughters having since been born to them. He resided in 
Salem and vicinity with his family until the spring of 1888, when he removed to the 
young city of Horton. Kansas, where he has since been employed at his trade (painter) 
in the shops of the C., R. I. & P. R’y Co., his present home. He is a poetical con- 
tributor to the Salem (Neb.) Index, Verdon (Neb.) Vidette, Morrill (Kans.) News and 
the St. Joseph Herald, and is composer of many sacred and sentimental songs, 
words and music, that are being arranged for publication in the near future. 


NBBRASKA BOBTS. 




M.V. GANNON(page 71) was born in Dublin, Ireland, February He was educated 

principally in the common schools of the country, and emigrated to America in 
October, 1866; remaining in the city of New York until July of the following year, 
when he joined his friend, Mr. M, Johnson, now deceased, who left Ireland at the 
same time. Mr. Gannon taught school in Kock Island, subsequently in Scott County, 
Iowa, and for five years and a half was principal of the parochial schools at St. Mar- 
guerite, Davenport, Iowa. He was admitted to the practice of the law in April, 1873, 
but did not go into active practice until 1876. He made his studies chiefly with P. T. 
McElherne, lately of Chicago, now deceased. Mr. Gannon contributed prose and 
poetry to the old Rock Island Argus, the St. Louis Western Watchman, New York 
Freeman’s Journal, and other papers east and west. He was early drawn into poli- 
tics, and is now, so he says, doing penance for all his indiscretions in that particular. 
He is at present head of the National League in America. 

Abbie Isabelle Horton (page 22) is a New England woman; was born and reared 
in a town on the Connecticut River in New Hampshire. Coming to Nebraska in 1871 
she has since lived on a farm near Nebraska City. 

George B. Mair (page 15) is a writer of considerable ability, as his single contribu- 
tion wiU indicate. He is a member of the staff of the Callaway County Courier, and 
his verses are frequently reproduced in more pretentious publications. 

C. M. Barrow (page.48) is editor of the Tecumseh Chieftain and is one of the most 
graceful writers of the state. The mingling of the toil of getting out a country news- 
paper and writing good verse is not easy, but Mr. Barrow seems to have a way of ac- 
complishing it. 

R. H. House (page 49) has not heretofore been heard of as a writer of verse. Mr. 
House is well known as a sweet singer rather than a writer. He is a leading feature 
in Crete’s ablest Quartette. 

John B. Sumner (page 55) writes to escape the lonesomeness of isolation in a little 
cattle camp far from civilization. As will be guessed from the contribution here ap- 
pearing his work dates back several years. He is not a beginner. 

Mrs. Kate Cleary (page 77) was formerly a Chicago woman but has for years lived 
at Hubbell, Nebraska. Her work is not new to the editors of eastern publications 
and her pen has made the prairies of Nebraska known in many quarters, her verses 
usually having a local flavor. 

Frank Harris (page 22) does not claim to be a poet. He did not write sonnets at the 
tender age of of nine years, and up to eleven had not composed an epic. He says that 
having tried every other branch of literature he writes poetry that he may not seem 
impartial. It it not the fault of his ancestors, however, if he is not a successful 
rhymster, as his family has produced two great poets, Wadsworth and Longfellow. 
He has no aspirations of completing the trio. He is twenty years of age, having 
been born in Weedsport, New York. He graduated from the Omaha high school in 
1890, went on the Omaha World-Herald the following year and remained with it un- 
til February. ’93. He is now associate editor of the Omaha Implement World and 
Western Merchant, devoting what spare time he can find to general literary work in 
which he is attaining some success. 

Mary M. Holmes (page 60) was born September 3, 1870, in a little log cabin on her 
father’s farm, where the city of South Omaha is now located. When she was eight 
years old she was sent to a country school. Two years later her father moved to 
Omaha where she attended the parochial school. She attended the parochial schools 
for five years and after that took a short course at the Omaha Commercial College. 


G 


NBBRASKA 


POBTS. 


Doc George Smith (page 27) was originally named simply George Smith, but a nick- 
name given in boyhood has clung to him throughout life and is now as much a part 

. as any of the family name. Mr. Smith has written a great deal of verse on humanita- 
rian subjects. He takes a personal pride in what he calls his “cussedness,” but in- 
vestigation reveals a warm heart beneath a contentious exterior. He is at present 
surveyor for Douglas Gounty. 

Collin R. Davidson (page 79) is as much of a wit as a poet. In presenting his qua- 
train Mr. Davidson remarked: “If you are to praise rivers and lakes and other trans- 
portation agencies I do not see what is the matter with a gentle word for the rail- 
roads which we know have built the west country. A railroad may not be as poetic 
as a mountain stream, but it gets there. Why, imagine a trunk line lying idle as long 
as the Mississippi river did before doing anything for civilization.” Mr. Davidson s 
appreciation is warped by the fact that he is a railroad man. He has written several 
interesting prose articles for the newspapers. 

Ida Marion Chase (page 80) of Grafton, is a young writer whose verses are not un- 
known to the local newspapers in her community. 

Mrs. Elia W. Peattie (page 94) is not only a writer of repute but is of distinct liter- 
ary associations. Her husband is editor of the Omaha World-Herald, on the staff of 
which paper she is also employed. Her short stories have appeared in the standard 
periodicals. She is the winner of the $900 prize offered by the Detroit Free Press for 
a serial story and has written several books. 

Carl Smith (page 96) is a reporter ou the World-Herald staff at Omaha. 

Mae Connor W'alworth (page 100) is a native of the city of Ottawa, LaSalle (bounty, 
Illinois, and was born and educated in that city. After spending a few years as a 
teacher in her native state she moved to her present abode at Spaulding, Greeley 
County, Nebraska. Her poems are written chiefly for the newspapers. She has 
contributed several poems to the county papers, and is a weekly correspondent of the 
two leading papers of her county. 

E. T. Kearney (page 12) was born March 23, 1861, at Pinckney, Michigan. He was a drug 
clerk there several years and came west to Sheldon, Iowa, in 1880, where he clerked 
in a general store two years and in the post office one. He moved to Yankton, S. D., 
in 1883, where for three years he was assistant post master, and came to .Jackson, 
Nebraska, in 1886, where he established the Bank of Dakota County. He is cashier 
of it, and vice president of the Bank of Jefferson, South Dakota. He was married 
June 8, 1887, to Miss (flara Miner, of Yankton, and has two children. He was admit- 
ted to the bar of the district courts of Nebraska and South Dakota, June 10, 1891. He 
has a fin^ library of about five hundred volumes, and is also a collector of curiosi- 
ties, old weapons, etc., and has made some reputation as a public speaker. 

Clarence Albert Murch (page.^0), president of the Episcopal College, at Kearney, 
Nebraska, was born at Appleton, Wisconsin, August 18, 185,'). His parents were pio- 
neers, having gone to Wisconsin from New York in 1864. He was educated at the 
Lawrence University of Wisconsin, pursuing a classical course. His life has been 
devoted to teaching for which his temperament and training particularly fit him. 
He is an enthusiastic and sympathetic student of nature, and his leisure hours usually 
find him afield. His poetic temperament is largely inherited. Many of his writings 
in the form of songs, character sketches and operettas have been set to music by 
prominent composers and published by The John Church Co., and Fillmore Bros., of 
Cincinnati, S. W. Straub, of Chicago, and others. A charming vein of humor runs 
through much of his writing. 


NBBRASKA BOBTS. 


7 


Charles J. Barber (page 85), in respouse to a request for a few words concerning 
himself, wrote: “On the banks of the beautiful Hudson, in 1841 1 first saw the light, 
and in early youth found a home in the great west, and became a resident of Omaha 
twenty-six years ago. ‘ The Beacon Star of Hope’ was written on scraps of paper 
while riding across the prairies one summer afternoon in 1871. ‘Youth’ and ‘Our 
Prairie Homes’ were written the following year. As secretary and manager of the 
Home Fire Insurance Company, life’s busy cares so fully occupy the mind that 
sentiment and song are precluded. My literary efforts ended with the advent of a 
busy life twenty years ago.’’ 

M. A. Browin (page 75) was born at Janesville, Wisconsin, in 1853. He lost his parents 
while he was still j oung and had to “hustle.” He went into a country printing office 
at thirteen and learned the trade in all its branches.' He worked as compositor and 
job printer in (’ouncil Bluffs as early as 1870. He went to Beatrice as a journey- 
man printer in 1871. Bought half interest in the Beatrice Express in 1874 and was part 
and entire owner, editor and manager until 1888. He founded the Kearney Hub in 
October, If 88, and has been editor and manager ever since. 


Mrs. Emma Shuman, 


Nebraska City. 


NOVEMBER. 

November, gloomy eyed and sullen browed. 

With sweeping garment of a misty hue, 

Comes gliding with slow step across the land, 

And straightway at her feet rise moaning winds, 

That sing a requiem for the summer, dead 
And buried deep beneath the autumn leaves. 

Anon the giant trees take up the strain. 

With louder voice and naked arms wide tossed, 

Do groan and sigh in helpless agony 
At touch of her prophetic hand. 

Which creeping slowly up and ever up. 

Doth sap their very vitals and enwrap 
Them fast in winter’s death. 

The little brook that lately kissed the bank 
Through sunny hours and glints of leafy shade. 
Babbling the while unto the listening ferns. 

That ever bent their graceful heads 
To answer his caress, 

Now silent slips away as one who hears a foe behind. 
Bearing upon his bosom brown and sere 
The lifeless forms of those he lately loved. 

Adown the glen the summer winds rush with discordant 
sigh. 


lO 


NnBRA.SK A. POBTS. 


While all the tiny folk that habit in the wood 
Seek low their shelter. 

Stealthily she passed as one who but obeys a stronger 
power, 

Yet is the deed most hateful in her sight, 

Then from her mantle’s many folds 

There fell a pearl like mist that straightway wrought 

A magic in its touch on all below, 

Changing the brown to gray, the brilliant red to brown, 
Clothing the bare boughs in their winding sheet. 

And decking every blade and stem. 

In vestment white for burial. 

A pause, in which all nature stands aghast. 

While heavy bends the sky its weeping clouds 
In sorrow at the sight; 

Another, and the topmost branches bow 
Their allegiance to the Icy King, 

Who swiftly riding in his windy clouds. 

Doth warn of his approach. 

A moment more and the fierce northern steeds 
Are hard upon the scene. 

While thick and fast the snowy pall is laid 
On all the land. 

Why muse in sadness on this swift decay? 

’Tis but the death of nature that must come 
To aid the spring of life perennial; 

Without which no life is, nor can exist, 

And through which comes the perfect life above, 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


11 


For which we sleep as sleep these flowers 
Beneath the winter’s snow, 

To bloom the brighter when the Maker’s hand 
Quickens the germs of immortality 
And bids us spring as they will spring, 
Beauteous and free from every touch of earth, 
Through this long sleep. 


CRADLE SONG. 

Lullaby, sweetheart, the south wind is moaning. 

The moon sheds its pale light around thy white bed. 

While mother to thee her low love song is crooning. 

As swiftly thy footsteps to dreamland are sped. 

Lullaby, sweetheart, what aileth thy slumber? 

What shadowy phantom thy light dreams pursue? 

The angels are guarding thee, love, without number. 

And gently waft downward their message to you. 

Lullaby, sweetheart, the treetop’s low music 
Has lulled into silence its twittering brood. 

While over them watches the mother-bird ever. 

Lest danger be near them or storms, rock too rude. 

Lullaby, sweetheart, no harm shall assail thee. 

The light cloud’s dim shadows no danger foretell. 

The stars softly kiss thee, the moonbeams caress thee. 

The night wind sings, "‘Hush to thee, babe, all is well.” 


12 


NBBRA.SKA POBTS. 


Lullaby, sweetheart, the soft lids are falling. 

The long lashes lie on the roseate cheek. 

Oh, take her, oh, guard her, ye angels of slumber. 

And bear her back safely when morning shall break. 


Edward T. Kearney, Jackson. 

AN HONEST MAN. 

He lived — a dainty cherub — fresh from Him, 

Before whose radiance brightest stars grow dim; 

So weak, so frail, so helpless, with sweet eyes. 

Teeming with all the joys of Paradise; 

‘‘Thine may be honor, glory, fame, loved one. 

Or e’en a life of crime be just begun.” 

He grew — came with the happy thronging years. 

New joys, new pleasures, sorrows, hopes and fears. 

Life’s vistas yawned before him — open wide 
The gates of W'ealth, with honor close beside. 

While just beyond, sin cast its glamour gay. 

O’er crimson paths, inviting him to stray. 

He loved — the winds sang gladly all day long. 

The beauties of his love in blissful song. 

The birds, with plumage gay his secret knew. 

And caroled it, as past they swiftly flew; 

E’en daisies blushed, while stately golden rod. 

Apprised the rose with lightsome beck and nod. 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS, 


IS 


He wed — at last to him, the glad morn brings 
His blushing bride — all happy nature sings 
His festal triumph; sweet indeed is love, 

And ever new; when stars sang first above, 

Their paeans of joy and peace, ’twas old, yet 
still 

To its behests we bow — nor think it ill. 

He learned life’s lesson well — its joys, its cares 
Come one by one, as on each slow year wears. 

The beacon-light of fame blazed ’fore his gaze, 
Now lustrous — near, now dim as through a haze. 
Discouraged oft — still pressed he on — bright hope 
New vigor gave, against fresh foes to cope. 

He mourned — as Adam’s sons must ever mourn. 
Old age crept on apace — he neared that bourn. 
Which lies beyond the unillumined way 
Each mortal, for himself must tread some day; 
Full long the burden of life’s battle bore. 

Nor wealth, nor fame came knocking at his door. 


He died — unknown to honor, glory, song. 

Yet many, as through life he moved along. 

Gave blessings to him — for where sorrow came. 
Where dwelt the sick, the poor, the grieved, the 
maim. 

He tarried — of his little gave — oft soothed 
The sinner’s heart, the brow of anguish smoothed. 


14 


NBBRA.SKA. JPOBTS. 


He lives — again — in Heaven high above, 

Safe in His arms of boundless, matchless love; 
Forgotten now, the toils and pains of earth. 
Forgotten — dreams of fame, wealth, glory, worth, 
Base shadows all — upon his stone indite 
This epitaph, in graven letters bright: 

‘‘An honest man’s the noblest work of God, 

And here, in peaceful rest — beneath this sod, 

Lies one who bartered honor not away. 

But fought life’s battle nobly day by day 
Until at last — full low his life sands ran. 

And God caDed unto him — an honest man.” 


A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 

Long years agone, an adage, told by dear old uncle Ben, 

Dried childish tears and made one drear day bright and glad 
again; 

To you, it perchance may bring peace, soothe sorrow, ban- 
ish pain; 

’Tis brief — “A hundred years from now ’twill be just all 
the same.” 

Oft memory has recalled it; once — when first I fell in love, 

With one — who seemed to me as fair and guileless as a dove, 

Whose blue eyes to my raptured gaze spake love and con- 
stancy. 

But who, alas, more fickle proved than bubbles on the sea. 


NBBRA.SKA BOBTS, 


75 


When shattered, torn and bleeding ’neath her words of scorn 
and rage, 

As in love’s book I turned my first obscured and blotted 

P‘ige, 

The grave seemed like a gladsome place, until the old 
thought came: 

Stop — think — ‘‘A hundred years from now ’twill be just all 
the same.” 

Once more — love came — less fleeting — then a babe, dear to 
my heart 

Was our darling — seemed he of soul and life a very part; 

And then — one day — just when the leaves were turning into 
gold. 

My winsome lad was called on high and I — Oh, God, unfold 

To me Thy arms of mercy too — take me with my loved boy; 

Can I not die — must I live on — alone without one joy? 

Oh, G(;d, ’tis cruel — Hark! A voice breaks on my mind in 
sane, 

Man — hush! ‘‘A hundred years from now ’twill be just all 
the same.” 

Later — when peace came o’er my mind,* God’s grace stilled, 
soothed my pain. 

And ’gainst the cruel, heartless world, I pitted body — brain; 

Slow struggled onward, upward, fame’s craggy, tedious 
way, 

Until at last — high up its slope — I near had won the day. 


NBBRASKA BOBTS, 


1(3 

Then — swift — a frightful tragedy — ’twould take too long to 
tell, 

Eno^ulfed me in its awful folds and dashed me down to — 
well. 

Down quite as low as mortals go upon this sin-stained earth, 
So low, I almost cursed the morn m}^ mother gave me birth. 


There, at the bottom of the pit, deep, groveling in the dirt. 
Debased, spurned, trodden, spat upon, ah, then I knevv the 
hurt. 

The pang, the sting, the anguish of proud Lucifer who fell 
From high battlements of Heaven, to vilest vaults of hell. 


Yet lived I on — yea thanked my God, that though my wrongs 
were great. 

Still could I say, ‘T’m honest yet,” and thus defy grim fate; 

Aye — lived and learned, grief does not kill, ’twill bruise, 
’twill crush, ’twill maim. 

But know, “A hundred years from now ’twill be just all the 
same.” 

An honest man in every clime, an honest man will be. 

And the adage I have told you, prove true as yon may see; 

Save in one case, canst guess it ? No ? Then listen, ponder, 
think. 

When folly becks thee o’er sin’s pool, stop trembling at the 
brink. 


NBBRASKA. POBTS, 


17 


Offend thy God by grievous sin and not repent, ah, then 
IIow paltry seems the adage left by good old uncle Ben; 
For as eternity rolls on, in ceaseless bitter pain, 

A million, billion, trillion years, ’twill not be all the same. 


l’envoi. 

Through life, by hope, may you ne’er be deserted. 
When sad scenes sore confound you, 

And gray griefs grim surround you. 

Just know 
The blow 

Won’t kill, although you may be disconcerted; 

For the sun must shine again. 

Pleasure banish deepest pain; 

So fy, 

Don’t cry; 

Laugh at the woes that cannot be averted; 

For a hundred years from now 
’Twill be just the same I vow. 

And we 
W^ill see 

That true sorrow in our lives ne’er was inserted. 


18 


NEBRASKA. POBTS. 


J. E. Westley, 

« 

THE SUMMERTIME. 

How beautiful the summertime, 

When Mother Earth is at her best; 

The fields and woods, the hills and vales 
Are clothed in nature’s vest. 

Each blooming flower and singing bird, 
Each gaywinged butterfly and bee. 

Join now to fill the summer breeze 
With fragrance sweet, and melody. 

The waving corn, the golden sheaves. 

The ripening fruit on vine and tree, 

Bring to the mind and inmost soul 
Sweet thoughts of immortality. 

The floating clouds above my head. 

The murmuring brook beneath my feet, 

Combine with birds and flowers and bees 
And make the chorus grand and sweet. 

The bright warm rays of summer’s sun. 
The cool, refreshing summer shower. 

Reveal to me the words of truth, 

’Tis but God’s own creative power. 


Salem 


NnBRA.SKA. POBTS, 


Ah, sweetest, sweetest summertime, 

Thou art the queen of all the year; 

But soon thy flowers we shall not see. 

Thy birds we shall not hear. 

O! could our lives be more like thee. 

Our hearts filled with more summertime 
Then we might help some struggling soul. 
Life’s ever rugged hill to climb. 

Farewell, farewell, sweet summertime. 
Thy coming days are few and near; 

Life too, with us, may be the same, 

God grant it end in love and cheer. 

EVENING. 

The golden sun has sunk to rest 
Behind the western hills. 

And the gentle twilight steals across; 
And all creation stills. 

The lowing herds in yonder field 
Have ceased their search for food; 
And the lark and thrush, and robin too 
Each hovers o’er her brood. 

Each budding leaf and blooming flower 
Is kissed by evening dew; 

And in the far off eastern sky. 

The silvery stars peep through. 


20 


NBBJRASKA. BOBTS. 


The sighing winds in yonder wood. 

The brooklet in the vale, 

Are resting from their songs of glee^ 
Beneath the moonlight pale. 

The little ones have ceased their play, 
Their heads on mother’s breast; 

They’re soothed by her sweet, tender songs 
Of lullaby to rest. 

Blest eventide, sweet hour of rest. 

Thy welcome shadows fall. 

My prayer and song I’ll raise to Him 
Who giveth rest to all . 

LOGAN. 

Gone? Yes, the chief of warriors bold, 
Is at last enrolled 
Among the dead . 

The bells with solemn toll. 

Announce the departed soul 
Of an honored head . 

No more in battle’s strife, 

For the nation’s life. 

Will he his sword unsheath. 

For his work is done. 

And his setting sun 
W ent down in death . 


^SfBBRASHA. JPOBTS, 


21 


A statesman true; his. a household name, 
Has reached the highest pinnacle of fame. 
And in the struggle for home and peace 
He did not falter, nor ask release; 

But fought with sacred aim, 

To heal a nation’s shame. 

A nation mourns at the bier. 

And comrades shed a sympathizing tear. 
For a general brave. 

And on With careful tread, 

They bear the honored dead. 

To his silent grave . 

Sleep, thou warrior bold. 

Thy name’s enrolled 
Among the chieftains gone; 

For ages, thy name will be — 

A jewel to memory: 

A nation’s honored son. 


NBBRASKA. JPOBTS. 


22 


Mrs. a. 1. Horton, Nebraska City. 

' THE SUNKEN CITY. 


A Legend of the Breton Coast. 


Down, down the city sunk beneath the sea, 

Leaving no trace the curious eye to greet; 

Then suffered a ‘‘sea change,’’ — strange mystery! 

But yet, earth’s mysteries are not all complete. 

Then ’neath the waves, in that dim emerald light. 

All things remained just as they were before. 

Still did the aged wear their crowns of white. 

The young were fair and young forevermore. 

The little children in the streets were playing, 

No wiser growing, never growing old. 

But through the sea queen’s realms joyous went straying, 
Knowing no summer’s heat or winter’s cold. 

Fierce storms might rage above, but there safe lying 
Beneath the waters, lost from off the earth 
No voice of woe was heard, nor any crying; 

Death was unknown, nor was there any birth. 

Sometimes the sailor, through the wild black night. 
Toiling and battling where the surges rave. 

Sees spires and turrets in the morn’s grey light 
Rising above the tossing, storm-swept wave. 


]SfBBRA.SKA. ROBTS. 


23 


And hears with awe the sound of sweet chimes ringing. 

And organ’s diapason on the air 
Rolling and swelling, and weird voices singing 

Quaint, old-world anthems, high-pitched, slow and clear. 

Is there a sunken city? We are told 
’Tis but a myth, a legend of the past, 

But yet there is a land changeless nor old 

Keeping its pristine brightness while life last. 

Childhood’s the buried city of man’s life 
Ever unchanging, bright and glad always. 

In midlife veiled in mists of care and strife, 

And lost in the great sea of yesterdays. 

Ye weary ones! take memory’s faithful hand 

And once again its well-known landmarks trace, 

It smiles as erst it smiled, youth’s vanished land. 

And ever wears each dear familiar grace. 

The green hills echo back the sound of laughter. 

The streams rejoicing, seem to sweep along, 

More balmy are the winds, kindlier and softer, 

And birds exultant, sing their gladsome song. 

Ah, me! how^ beautiful it all appears 

To tired hearts — childhood’s fair vanished land — 

To saddened lives, stormtossed by grief and cares. 
Where sinless children wandered hand in hand. 


^4 


NBBRA.SKA. POBTS, 


ONE HOUR WITH THEE. 

One hour with thee, when morn with queenly splendor 
Scatters o’er earth her jewels glittering fair, 

When happy birds in song their tribute render. 

While Nature offers up her grateful prayer; 

One hour with thee. 

One hour with thee, when springtime's opening posies 
Are incense sending to the bending skies, 

When the fair lake, her smiling face discloses. 

And o’er the earth her low-voiced murmuring dies, 
One hour with thee. 

One hour with thee, when summer’s myriad roses 
Seem with the glowing sunset tints to vie. 

As gently round us, the sweet nightfall closes 
And twilight hours on brooding wing sweep by; 

One hour with thee. 

One hour with thee, when mellow autumn lingers 
As loth to yield to winter’s harsher reign. 

When trees seem painted as with fairy fingers 
Field, wood all brightness, an enchanted scene; 

One hour with thee. 

One hour with thee, when winter drear surrounds us, 
And fond hearts gather round the cheerful fire, 
When love her silken fetter throws around us 
And happy voices join in tuneful choir, 

One hour with thee. 


NBBRA.SKA JPOBTS, 


25 


One hour with thee, when all thy hopes are clouded, 

When grief sweeps o’er thee like the “surging sea,” 
When from thy heart, the light of joy is shrouded. 

And “summer friends,” like leaves in autumn, flee. 

Then all those hours with thee. 

MIDSUMMER SIGNS. 


Cobwebs. 

All day I’d watched the drifting clouds, fleecelike and silvery 
white. 

Until they faHed slow away, as came the summer night. 

No threatening ‘ Noah’s ’Ark” sailed low on the horizon’s 
rim; 

No boding “rain crow” hoarsely croaked, but the robin 
sang h^s hymn. 

The western skies flamed gold and red, and glory everywhere, 

“O. mother, dearest, do you think tomorrow will be fair?” 

And mother smiling in the door, said,- “Go to bed my lass,” 

In the morn you’ll see the cobwebs lie, thick on the meadow 
grass.” 

But my first garden party! — that night I could not sleep. 

And never, never did the hours so slowly seem to creep; 

And to the garden swift I ran, as soon as I could see; 

O, joy! White veils were glimmering on flower, and bush 
and tree. 

Ah, surely fairy fingers, with touches light and deft. 

Fastened those myriad drops of pearl upon the filmy weft. 


20 


NEBRASKA. ROBTS, 


Bat as the* sun rose grandly up and smiled, the looker deemed 

A thousand gems flashed back his smile, and mimic rain- 
bows gleamed. 

The wind was but the breath of flowers, the lake like pol- 
ished glass. 

And like a jeweled ‘‘prayer rug,” shone the cobwebs on the 
grass. 

O, wise fair weather prophet! a kind power teaches thee 

To hang your dainty signals out on blossom, flower and tree. 

When sunshine rules the summer days and no enshrouding 
rain 

It’s gray and dripping mantle spreads o’er valley, hill and 
plain; 

When the laborers all go gaily, and smiling as they pass 

To see the crystals flash and shine from the cobwebs on the 
grass. 

Children of sad Arachne, deft spinners of the night. 

And Tveavers of the silken net enmeshed with dew gems 
bright. 

Knowing your ancient lineage and history, I ween 

You seek to deck your draperies, with the jewels of a queen. 


NnSRA^SKA. ROBTS, 


27 


Doc. George Smith, Omaha. 

THE REAL RESURRECTION. 

He is a benefactor of the race, 

Who smoothes the way for weaker minds to trace, 
Who through the mists of dogmas, and the night 
Of superstition, leads to Reason’s Light. 

Christ was a Heretic. His humane views 
Ran counter to the doctrine of the Jews 
Whose selfish bigotry he dared to fight, 

And advocate the Golden Rule of Right. 

From that low birth in Bethlehem he trod, 

Defending both Humanity and God, 

And taught, what we believe God’s general plan — 
The Universal Brotherhood of Man. 

No Jew had doubted yet, but that the earth, 

With all its throng of animated birth. 

Was his by gift, through Abraham’s behest, 

T’ enslave or slay, whichever suited best. 

The pioneers of Canaan’s fertile plain 
Were by invading Jews in battle slain, — 

And blood of innocence besmeared the sod 
Of Jordan’s valleys in the name of God. 


28 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS, 


With sach a people, and at such an age 
Appeared this Heretic upon the stage. 

Spurned, buffeted, because his humane deeds, 
Conflicted with the priests’ established creeds. 

He taught, as never Jew had taught before. 

That God is Love, and not a god of war. 

That Love, and Charity to all, impart 
The germ that elevates the mind and heart. 

For this he suffered, and for this he died 
Upon the cross — with thieves was crucifled, 

Yet from his mouldered dust, and perished pall. 
Arose this God — Humanity to all. 

This is the Resurrection and the Light 
That spreads its rays in Superstition’s night. 
And like the star that shepherds wondering saw, 
Directs to God’s eternal, changeless law. 

LADY BIRD. 

A silly bird once, of humble birth, 

Sang cheerfully in her nest 
The songs of the season, and songs of worth. 
And seemed to be truly blessed. 

But as she sang she thought, one day, 

(And it seemed her notes to inspire) 

That it was folly to seem so gay. 

Where there were so few to admire. 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS. 


29 


She plumed her wings with a golden crest, 
Her brow with a diamond fair, 

And sleeked the down on her snowy breast, 
And darted from nether air. 

Away she soared, and sang as she rose, 

•‘A Lady-bird I’ll be wooed,” 

And scorned to stoop to the call of those 
That gleaned from the earth their food. 

From her tinseled garb in that dizzy height. 
Gleamed many a glittering ray, 

When a hawk descried her heedless flight, 
And knew her an easy prey. 

Adjusting his dappled robe of state 
To the fashion and cut of the day. 

And, — ere the Lady-bird dreamed of her fate, 
He bore her in triumph away. 


Mary B. Hoffman, Newman Grove. 

WAITING. 


On the death of my beloved daughter Blanche, died June 29, 1891. “Lo, the staff 
is broken and the beautiful rod.” 

Alone I walk the peopled city. 

Where each seems happy with his own; 

Oh friends, I ask not for your pity, 

I walk alone. 


30 


nbbra.sm:a. pobts. 


No more to me the wood rejoices, 

Though wooed balmy airs of June; 

Oh birds, your sweet and piping voices 
Are out of tune. 

In vain to me the green tree arches 
Its leaves in many a feathery spray; 

In vain the evening, stariy marches. 

And sunlit day. 

In vain your beauty, summer flowers. 

Ye cannot greet those loving eyes; 

They gaze on other fields than ours. 

On other skies. 

The gold is rifled from the coffer. 

The blade is stolen from the sheath; 

% 

Life has but one more boon to offer. 

And that is death . 

Full well I know the voice of duty. 

And therefore life, and health, must crave. 

Though she that gave the world its beauty 
Is in her grave. 

I live, O, lost one, for the living 
Who drew their earliest life from thee. 

And wait until, with glad thanksgiving. 
We shall be free. 


NBBRASIlA. JPOBTS. 


31 


For life to me is as a station, 

Wherein apart a traveler stands, 

One absent long from home and nation, 
In other lands. 

And I, as she that stands and listens. 
Amid the twilight’s chill and gloom, 

To hear approaching in the distance. 
The train, for home. 

For death shall bring another meeting. 
Beyond the shadows of the tomb. 

On yon shore, a dear one is waiting. 
Until I come. 

DECORATION DAY. 

(Spring with her banners of gold and green, 
With her splendid suns and stars serene, 
Smiles in the peace that comes after the fray; 
And under the arch of the bright May skies 
The starry flag of the Union flies. 

Comrades, over your breasts to-day. 

Forward, march! to the roll of the drum, 

The loyal sons of the Union come. 

Not to the battle — the cannon’s roar 
Is heard in the forest and field no more— 

The sweetest flowers in all the South, 
Blooming up from the stainless sod 


32 


NBBRA.SKA ROBTS. 


With incense sweet as they smile to God, 

Have sealed with silence its iron mouth. 

Your guns are spiked, and your swords are sheathed. 
And your brows with the laurels of peace are wreathed. 

It’s after the battle — the fight is done. 

The victory is lost — the victory is won. 

And ye. who fought for the North and shed 
Your blood on her fields, come now to-day. 

Where your comrades sleep in your blue and grey, 
Under the grasses that hide your dead. 

Halt! These are heroes that slumber here. 

And such you are for the wounds you bear. 

It’s after the battle — what sounds are here? 

The songs of birds on the scented air; 

The murmurous sigh of the inland gales; 

The voice of the rivers, dashing free. 

Moves in melody, out to the sea 
By waving meadows, and violet vales. 

Where once in the strife, and the passion and pain — 
Bose the shout of the victors, and the cry of the slain. 

Beat your drums with no muffled sound, 

Let the bugles echo the camps around. 

And still three cheers for the blue and the grey. 

For whether they lived or whether they died. 

The North by their valor is glorified. 

And rich is her record of love today. 

Sons of the North, there’s victory sweet. 

That comes to the brave that know no defeat. 


NBBRASKA. BOBTS. 


S3 


Here they are lying — the ones that shed 
Their blood for their land till her vales ran red, 

And her rivers blushed with the crimson tide . 
Honor them. O’er their graves the years 
Have scattered their roses and showered their tears. 
The noble women have knelt and sighed; 

Hence their honor was theirs, and fame 
Enshrined in glory each deathless name. 

And peace like a beautiful angel, broods. 

O’er the fertile fields and the solitudes 
Of a land made bright by the smile of God, 

And the dearest blessing of all today. 

The foes that fought in the far away 
Are reunited on this dear sod. 

Which blossoms over the slain of war; 

Friends, was it love we were fighting for? 


O, love was ours, though the fight was sore; 

It is ended now, we are friends once more; 
Once more, thank God, we can proudly stand. 
And looking back on the bloody past. 

Say it is over at last, at last. 

With heart to heart, and with hand to hand, 
Over — and here in the sight of heaven 
We do forgive as we are forgiven. 


34 


NBBRASKA. BOBTS. 


And thus forgiving, brave hearts and true, 

The boys in grej^ and the boys in blue. 

Your highest mission at last is done; 

And though o’er the graves of our dearest we weep. 
We can trust them all to the tender keep 
Of the God that guides and makes us one. 

One in the union that will not cease. 

Till the flag is unfurled in the “Port of Peace.” 


Wm. H. Alexander, Omaha. 

LOVE’S MESSAGE. 

Ah! little rose, 

In sweet repose. 

Upon her bosom lying; 

Thou hast revealed 
What she concealed. 

Who keeps my heart a-sighing. 

Sweet little rose. 

Nobody knows. 

But us, thy tender story; 

For her and me 
The joy shall be. 

And thou shalt have the glory. 


NBBRA^SKA POBTS, 


35 


Dear little rose, 

Thou hast no woes 
To keep thee always sighing; 
For thou couldst die 
Without a sigh, 

While on her bosom lying. 


AFTER THE NIGHT THE MORNING COMETH. 


The quiet stars watch over us awhile. 

Then disappear; they are not lost, we know, 

And on each morrow, when the ling’ring beams 
Of sunlight sink, at last, beyond the western sea. 
They come again. And sometimes, 

When we turn our eyes upon the lighted sky, 

A passing cloud may, for a moment. 

Hide a star, and leave us in the shadow; 

And yet, we do not think the gleaming orb 
Is dimmed because the shadow falls; 

We know full well, that when the cloud 
Shall pass away, the star will glisten 
In the distant sky, as brightly as before. 

Hope lights the pathway where we tread. 

And sets before our eager gaze 
Fair visions; but, alas! too oft, 

Ere we can grasp and bring them 

Into life’s reality, they fade, and pass away 


3G 


NEBRASKA. ROBTS. 


Beyond our reach. But Faith, fair angel 
Of the higher life, will take us by the hand 
And lead us on till Hope appears again ; 

Or, if we follow willingly, till clouds 
Have disappeared and greater joy 
Is found in visions realized . 

So God, who holds us in his tender care 
And keeping, — though sometimes sorrow. 
Aye, and keenest anguish, may be press’d 
Upon our shrinking hearts, and wrought 
Into our very souls, — will surely soften 
Every wound, and wipe away the bitter tears, 
Not always when we will, but when to Him 
It seemeth l>est. 

MY SWEETHEART. 

A queen is she, to whom my heart 
Its purest homage pays; 

Around her face, divinely formed. 
Love’s brightest halo plays. 

The fairest flower that ever bloomed. 
Would weep if she were nigh, 

To find its loveiness surpassed, — 

And thus lamenting, die. 


NBBRASKA BOBTS. 


37 


The dearest warblers of the field, 

God’s little worshipers, 

Would stop their joyous songs to hear 
That sweeter voice of hers. 

The glimmering stars, whose radiance tips 
The ripples of the sea, 

Seem only shadows, in the light 
Of her bright eyes, to me. 

A sacred vision through the day. 

Midst hope’s bright fancies set; 

At night, transfigured in my dreams. 
She seems more lovely yet. 


Charles W. Allen, Chadron. 

THE LAND PIRATE’S DREAM. 

Dedicated to Illegitimate Locators. 

It was a good day’s work; he had located many. 

And was counting his cash before going to bed; 

He had located a dozen, and hadn’t given any 
Their numbers for less than five dollars a head. 

And he mused, as he sat by his fire that evening: 

‘‘Those fellows imagine they’re rich, I suppose. 

But there was one old chap who did lots of squealing; 

He was poor, I should judge, from the looks of his clothes. 


38 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


‘"He was an oldish like man, and his garments were seedy, 
He had a care-worn look as though he’d seen hard times; 

He began to tell something about being needy, 

But I stopped him — it’s my business to look after the dimes; , 

Two twenty-nine was the number I gave him. 

And I guess it’s all right, I know it is with me; 

He couldn’t find his land for the snow, now to save him. 

And I’m sure of one thing, I have my fee. 

“ I told him his land for a thousand would pass. 

Gently rolling, inclined toward the creek. 

Covered all over with the finest of grass. 

And rich, black soil, full twelve inches thick. 

"There is such land out there, so I’ve been told. 

And I hope that fortune will lend him a hand; 

It will be hard for his family to pull out through the cold 
Only to find they have been located in sand; 

How he clung to that old worn five dollar bill 
As though ’twas the last one he ever would see; 

Asked about ‘rain,’ as if he expected to till 

The whole earth, then reluctantly gave it to me.” 

The Pirate then turned down his lamp to retire. 

While a feeling of drowsiness over him crept. 

He threw himself down on his couch by the fire. 

And wooed the sweet goddess of slumber, and slept . 

But his sleep was disturbed, for the goddess of slumber 


NBBHASKA BOBTS, 


39 


Embodying all of the graces divine, 

Stamped on his vision the indelible number 

He had given the old man: — ‘‘two twenty -nine.” 


And his dream brino^s to view a low-covered wa^on 
In front of a cottage, on a morning in May, 

And friends who have come to bid adieu to the family, 

And wish them success in their home far away. 

The good wife says, as she parts with her neighbors, 

“We will gather again, around our own hearthstone; 

Thank God, at last that rent days are over. 

We’re going to live on a farm of our own.” 

The low-covered wagon pulls out from the door-way, 

And handkerchiefs float on the spring- scented breeze; 

The old man is happy, he is out on his journey, 

And his rich prairie farm in his mind’s eye he sees. 

The dreamer is with them, his fancy still reigns. 

By the rapidity of thought, unchained by the will. 

He accompanies their wanderings through valley and plains. 
Till they come to a halt on a bleak sandy hill. 

And the old man says, as he looks at his papers, 

“The villain has stolen my rights, money and time; 

By unscrupulous lying he has driven my family 

To this miserable sand-hill, — number two twenty-nine.” 

The sun fades away, its great mission to All, 

The lark seems to wonder, as past them she flies 


40 


NEBRASKA. BOBTS. 


And leaves the low-covered wagon alone on the hill, 

While the tokens of night gather fast in the skies. 

The children are playing, poor innocents, playing, 

While the mother is weeping, and with no thought of harm. 
The elder girl comes and addresses them, saying. 

Papa, we’ve got here, this is our farm. 

What a beautiful scene! I think I see the motion 
Of those low-rolling hills where the sand is so white. 

And from what I hear uncle say of the ocean. 

I fancy they resemble its billows at night.” 

The moon hides her face, and low rolling thunder 
Increases the darkness that gathers around — 

Tbe children stop playing, and in fear and in wonder. 

Their little hearts beat at the stillness profound. 

The father stands silent in the shade of the wagon; 

Mother weeps; children ask “Whnt does it mean?” 

Their answer, the howl of the wolf in the distance. 

And the wind as it breaks on this desolate scene. 

The dreamer starts. Conscience? The word has no meaning, 
’Twas thrown to the dogs, in our grandfathers' days; 

’Tis his fast-wak’ning senses hurriedly leaving 

The low-covered wagon, where a sad mother prays. 

His mind quickly leaves the wagon and people, 

The desolate scene on the bleak sandy hill, 

And turns with rapture to its own god — his pocket. 

Where is folded with others a worn five dollar bill. 


NBBRA.SKA. JPOBTS, 


41 


DREAMING. 

In yonder star my treasures are. 

And I watch it clear through the night; 

No sun shines on its golden shrines, 

Yet all is perpetual light. 

My castle stands upon the strands, 

M^ith the soft breezes blowing o’er; 

And the waters spray upon the bay, 

As they wash the bright pearls ashore . 

Break not the dream! ’tis sweet to me, 
A short respite from misery; 

I’ll dream. I’ll dream. 

Trumpets call to my castle hall 

The bold knights of this star-bound shore; 

And plumage white on helmets bright. 

Are counted by many a score. 

And ladies fair, with tender care. 

Bring sweet flowers of rarest bloom; 

And laughter swells like merry bells. 

On the soft air of sweet perfume. 

Break not the dream! ’tis sweet to steal 
Within the realm of the ideal; 

I’ll dream. I’ll dream. 


42 


NBBRA.SKA. BOBTS. 


A soft refrain of sweetest strain. 

Falls upon my listening ear, 

And I behold in lace and gold, 

The throng of banquet guests appear. 

But }di! iny heart, they pause, they part. 

What vision this, that moves between ? 

The courtiers proud, their heads have bowed — 
She comes to me! my own, my Queen! 

Break not the dream! ’tis sweet to me; 

A moment of tranquil ecstacy; 
ril dream. I’ll dream. 

She chose this star; love ranges far 
Beyond the re*alm of earth and sea; 

She bade me come to this her home. 

Queen of my heai’t. I’ll rule with thee. 

Break forth again, O! sweetest strain, 

Of music’s gladdest, wildest notes. 

Truth dare not beam on such a dream 
As this in which my spirit floats. 

Break not the dream! ’tis sweet to me — 
A taste of immortality; 

I’ll dream. I’ll dream. 

Yes, it would seem ’tis but a dream, 

Were not the tramp of millions heard, 

Who trophies bring to me, their King. 

^2 is not a dream; who said the word? 


NBBRASKA POBTS. 


43 


1 rule yon star, imperial car, 

That glides among a train of worlds. 

With grace it moves through endless grooves — 
Its pennant light through space unfurls. 

Wrapt in this dream, forever free 
From touch of cold reality 
I’ll dream. I’ll dream. 


Lillie Hudson, Omaha. 

CHARLENA. 

May your thoughts be ever higher. 

In you be a deep desire 
That a crown to you belong. 

Seek you for the fadeless treasure. 

And your life in happy measure 
Crowned with bliss will glide along. 

Keep up courage — tho’ life’s pathway 
Oft is steep and though but half way 
Climbed by you, it seems too long. 

Life will have its lights and shadows. 

After that in heav’nly meadows, 

Joy will be your endless song. 


44 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


, LOVE. 

Once upon a sunny day, 

Cupid flying — sent away 
Such a tiny loving dart, 

That it sunk into my heart. 

And the fairy was enraptured 
♦ By the prize so quickly captured; 

Wound his chain of love around, 

» Whispered, “Joy shall thee surround.” 

, Tightening, the dart sank deeper. 

While I pondered at my keeper. 

Who before my eyes kept dancing, 

Thus my very thoughts entrancing; 

Led me onward — only leaving 
When some creature — unperceiving, 
Caught his eye — O, have a care — oh I — 
Shot from out his bow an arrow 
Locked the chain — upon his shoulder 
Flung his quiver. To a boulder 
Sprang aloft — a buzzing sound — 
Cupid’s gone and I am bound. 

Did he shoot another dart, 

In some other victim’s heart ? 

Did he cleave but mine alone ? 

1 would give thee all I own ' 

This to know. Dear Cupid, please, 
You are cruel thus to tease. 

Cupid whispers — “’Tis love’s spell, 

All is well, and time will tell.” 


NBBRASKA ROBTS, 


45 


Geo. B. Mair, * Callaway. 

THE SOUTH LOUP RIVER. 

In the heart of Niobrara, 

Rushing forward like an arrow 
Speeding from the bow, 

Flows the laughing South Loup river, 

While its rippling waters ever 
Murmur soft and low. 

How I love to sit and ponder 
On its bank, just over yonder. 

When the setting sun 
Throws a sort of dreamy sadness 
O’er the stream which danced with gladness. 

Ere the day was done. 

Then to me it tells the story 
Of a long departed glory. 

In the days gone by; 

Of the valley, flower-scented. 

Where the painted safage tented 
’Neath the autumn sk}’; 

Of the dusky Indian maiden 
And her lover, coming laden 
Homeward from the chase; 


46 


NBBRA.SKA POBTS, 


Laying at her feet his treasure 
While her smile reflects the pleasure 
Beaming in her face. 

Far adown the sloping valley 
I can see the warriors ralley, 

And the council fire, 

Where the wise men of the nation 
Meet in solemn consultation, 

While the squaws retire. 

Then the war whoop of the savage. 
As he sallies forth to ravage 
The village of his foe; 

Followed by the noise of battle 
And the ever-changing rattle 
Of the twanging bow\ 

Then I see the braves returning. 

And the ruddy camp-fire burning 
By the river side 

Lights their wild and savage dancing, 
As it flickers in the glancing 
Waters of the tide. 

Then again the ceaseless chatter 
Of the dancing eddying water. 

Ever faint and low, 

Strikes my fancy like the rushing. 
Rumbling war-tread of the crushing 
Herds of bufialo. 


NBBRASKA BOBTS. 


47 


And I see their dark brown masses 
Surging through the canyon passes, 
As I almost dream; 

When they rush with noisy clatter, 
Deep into the cooling water 
Of the grateful stream . 

And a thousand fancies hover 
’Round the hazy hills and over 
Every landscape scene; 

And the laughing South Loup river 
Floweth on and on forever 

Through its valleys green. 

But I wake from out my dreaming, 
And I find the waters gleaming, 
Ever, as of yore; 

But the council fire has vanished. 
And the savage has been banished 
Hence forever more. 

And the lovely Indian maiden 
From the banks with flowers laden, 
Long ago has gone. 

And along the far horizon 
I no longer see the bison 
Coming swiftly on. 

Gone the wigwams and the dances, 
And the olden time romances 


48 


NEBRASKA. POETS. 


Of the hunting grounds, 

Where the white mun’s lowing cattle 
And the harvester’s fierce rattle 
Make discordant sounds. 

Fields of waving corn are growing, 
And the southland breeze is blowing 
O’er wheat fields of gold ; 

But the laughing South Loup river 
Floweth on and on forever 
As it did of old. 


C. M. Barrow, * Tecumseh. 

A SEPTEMBER MORNING IN NEBRASKA. 

The sun has not yet risen, but his golden glow. 

Lights up the misty portals of the far off east; 

The wavering shadows o’er the prairies come and go, 
And all the eerie sounds of night have ceased. 

Nature’s own songsters, from the cotton trees. 

Fill all the languorous air with melody. 

The corn fields rustle in the gentle morning breeze. 
And from the coming dawn the night-mist flees. 

Anon a golden disc appears to view. 

Afar, o’er shimmering seas of grass and corn — 

Like diamonds shine the myriad drops of dew, 

Up flies the lark, another day is born. 


NBBRASKA. JPOBTS, 


49 


R. H. House, 


Crete. 


MY LADY’S HANDS. 

My lady hath of charms her lion’s share; 

Grace, beauty, wit and a sweet thoughtfulness. 
Which rests serenely on her gentle face. 

Sweet as the flowers are, and pure as air. 

Yet, of all forms of beauty which she wears. 

One is reserved for me alone — the best; 

Her loving hand-clasps are for me; the rest 
Not mine alone may be. the whole world shares. 

Eye speaking unto eye must fail oftimes 
To utter all the feelings love demands. 

And loving letters leave to clasping hands 
To speak the heart-throbs hid ‘ between the lines.” 

Old age must one day touch my darling’s brow. 
Her dear face wrinkle, and her large eyes dim; 
But then her hands will touch the hands of him 
Who lives for her, with thrill as sweet as now. 

Ah. when my spirit freed from earth stains lands 
On those blest shores beyond Death’s narrow sea. 
May the dear boon be granted unto me 
To feel, close clasped in mine, my lady’s hands. 


50 


NBBRA.SKA BOBTS. 


C. A. Murch, 


Kearney. 


THE OLD WINDMILL. 

Biittered windmill, old and gray, 
Swinging there athwart the sky, 
Sport of every idle breeze 

That may chance to wander by . 
Blow they fair or blow they foul, 

Still you wag your dingy cowl 
Through the livelong night and day. 
Weather-beaten, old and gray. 

Is that endless monotone — 

Half a shriek and half a groan — 

That in dreary cadence drones 
From your old rheumatic bones, 

Echo of some sylvan tune. 

Or forgotten forest rune 
From the aisles of long ago, 

Calling, calling, soft and low 
Through the banished years that creep 
Back to some old forest dim, 

Where the woodland zephyrs sweep 
Dancing leaf and swaying limb? 

As the lazy breezes blow 

All your gaunt arms to and fro. 

Swinging ever round and round, 

To that weird, unearthly sound. 


NBBRA.SKA BOBTS, 


57 


Do you ever wish that some 

Wandering Don Quixote of wind 
With its stormy lance might come — 
End that weary, ceaseless grind ? 

Life is like a windmill gray, 
Swinging ’twixt the earth and sky; 

Sport of every passing breeze 
That may chance to wander by. 

Still we grind with smile or scowl. 
Blow they fair or blow they foul; 
Sure that we shall be some day, 
Weather-beaten, old and gray. 


WOOD RIVER. 

Idling by the upland glade — 
Haunt of swift and swallow; 

’Neath the alder’s grateful shade. 
Through the darksome hollow; 

In and out through quiet meads 
Where the aspens quiver. 

Ever, where its fancy leads. 

Slides and glides Wood River. 

Here, the herds of patient kine 
liuminate sedately, 

There, like soldiers ranged in line. 
Sweep the corn rows stately. 


5^ 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


Here, disports the tinny train, 
’Neath the bending willows; 
There the fields of growing grain, 
Sweep in emerald billows. 

At her image in the brink 

Wild rose smiles and blushes; 
Meadow lark and bobolink 
Pipe among the rushes. 

Buttercup and fragrant thyme 
Don their gala dresses. 

Bluebells ring a merry chime, 
’Neath the wind’s caresses. 

Do you wonder that my feet. 

From the din and hurry. 

Often seek this safe retreat. 

Far from care and worry? 

Where, across the peaceful meads. 

Shafts of sunlight quiver, 

And, where'er sweet fancy leads, 
Glides the tranquil river? 

THE SONG OF KING CORN. 

The dews of heaven. 

The rains that fall, 

The fatness of earth, 

I claim them all. 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS, 


53 


. O’er mountain and plain 
My praises ring, 

O’er ocean and land 

I am King! I am King! 

O’er the green hills 

Flash my shining blades; 
Past dancing rills, 

Through sun-kissed glades 
Spread my serried ranks 
With a sweep and a swing. 
Till the eye is aweary, 

I am King! I am King! 

Cities and states 
Arise at my call. 

Bright gold bursts out 
Where my footsteps fall. 
Where my russet plumes 
In the breezes swing 
The glad earth laughs. 

For I am King! I’m King! 

I girdle the earth 
With shining bands. 

The groaning trains 
That sweep the sands. 

And ships that brave 
Old Ocean’s swing 
Are mine, all mine — 

I am King! I am King! 


o4 


NBBRA.SKA POBTS, 


Would you dethrone me ? 

Not so, not so. 

Still the golden tide 
<5hall swell and flow; 
The earth yield riches, 
The toilers sing. 

In the golden land 

Where Corn is King. 


John B. Sumner, Camp Clark. 

THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. 


“It is ashame we cannot raise money for the pedestal.”— N. Y. World. 

When our fathers fought for freedom, 

And the breath of life was low; 

When their bodies formed the pathway 
Where e’er marched the haughty foe; 

When they fought for us. their children — 

Died that we might live in peace; 

When their fate hung in the balance. 

Thoughts of hope began to cease. 

Then their cry for aid was answered, 

France stretched forth her strong right hand; 

Helped them through the deep, dark waters, 

To the golden promised land. 


NBBRA.SKA BOBTS. 


55 


NoWj a hundred years this nation 
Is the wonder of the world; 

Feeding, clothing, guiding others 
With its flags of peace unfurled. 

Comes again across the ocean. 

Not the volunteers of France, 

But the tokens of her friendship 
Honoring our first advance. 

From her cities and her vineyards 
Conies this gift of noble heart; 

For our freedom fought the fathers — 
Sons, the old love crown with Art. 

But I hear the people saying 
“It’s a costly ornament; 

’WeVe no money for such trinkets, 
We’ll not have it if it’s sent.” 

Shame, my countrymen! Has honor 
That ye once loved, left ye now? 

Shall your children bear this cursed 
Golden calf to which ye bow? 

Was your ancient pride and justice 
The mirage ye see today? 

Do ye tread your fathers’ ashes 
Under foot as common clay? 


36 NBBRASKA POBTS. 

Can it be ye have forgotten 
Lafayette, and all the rest, 

When the eastern giant, stooping. 
Raised the infant of the west ? 

No, it must not, cannot be so! 

Rouse ye! that your riches make 
No disgrace, but honor ever; 

Rouse ye! for your children’s sake. 

Let this new born constellation 
Rise in glory through the years; 
And the world of thought be guided 
By the chorus of its spheres. 


Hastings. 

THE GOSPEL OF LABOR. 


C. W. Stewart, 


“True Work is Worship.”— Carlyle. 

Revealed religions all agree. 

That God commanded things to be — 
From crude stupendous vacuum planned 
The ripe results of sea and land. 

He spoke, and pregnant Zero heard 
The presto of fecundite word; 

Then from the womb of darkness burst 
A myriad sunlit universe. 


NEBRASKA. BOBTS. 


57 


’Tis orthodox, which means ’tis true, 
Hence reason is denied review; 

While pain of endless hell’s cremation. 
With condiments of castigation. 

Await with scorpion lash, the wraith 
Of worm, who doubts such cosmic faith. 
There are tomes and tons of commentation 
Of vapid verbose speculation; 

Accept such doctrines ye who may. 

I’ll not contend or say them nay. 

To one opinion I incline — 

Swart effort is a thing divine. 

I claim no great theistic lore. 

In doctrine I’m no connoisseur; 

One dogma more I hold as sure — 

Since man in nature first began, 

A worker is a righteous man; 

With patient, earnest, faithful plod. 

Who labors best, best worships God. 

The true elect — Evangels they. 

That work with purpose day by day; 

Each furrow plowed is an earnest prayer. 
Each hedgrow trimmed a sermon rare. 
Each sickle’s clink a church bell rung. 
Each garnered sheaf an anthem sung; 
Each field and meadow fair to see. 

Or well tilled patch are prophecy. 

While orchard tree and fruitful vine. 

Are true religion’s holiest sign. 


58 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


Results of brain and callous palm, 

Are labor’s realistic psalm. 

By sturdy strokes and slow advance, 
Man rose from savage indigence. 

In every age and every clime. 

Who builds a home erects a shrine. 

Since man in nature must abide, 

’Tis by honest work he's sanctified. 

THE GOSPEL OF MAMMON. 

So fools preach Mammon’s creed of self. 
And lionize the kings of pelf; 

Toil starves in wretched hovels bare, 

Theft shines a multi-millionaire; 

While scheming baud and gambling drone. 
Who cheat states’ prisons of their own. 

By “trusts” and ‘spools” and combinations, 
Possess the earth and damn the nations. 
Amid the strife of “bull” and “bear” 

Is heard the shout of “Laisse faire!” 

Such bedlamatic poisoned hell 
We’re told is proper, wise and well. 

In greed’s campaign of push and plan 
The least concern of man is man. 

The savage law of competition 
Might regulate the realm — Perdition; 

On virtue oft it levies fine, 

Then pays a large reward for crime. 


NEBRASKA JPOBTS. 


59 


Can sage no better plan provide 
Than economic fratricide? 

The land where hogs are amply fed, 
Should children know the want of bread? 
Is there no better social creed 
Than wanton, soul devouring greed? 

Hope see^ at least a better plan 
And brighter days for toiling man 
When economics are defined, 

Not how to rob but aid mankind; 

When public weal, the highest law 
Shall take the place of tooth and claw. 
And each to each assistance lends — 

One grand community of friends. 

COSMOS VS. CREED. 

Wouldst know thy God, inquiring man? 
Go search in nature’s cosmic plan, 
Where infinite and perfect law 
Inspires the soul with reverent awe; 
And there in rock bound volumes read 
The tenets of a perfect creed. 

Each atom holds its own receipt. 

Each rounded drop, the grand conceit 
On which the infinite was planned. 

Go read the laws and understand 
That plain and peak and precipice 
Relate their own true synthesis. 


eo 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS, 


The strata pages down between 
Silurian depths and pliocene, 
Proclaim in stone and fossil dust 
Life’s Genesis and Exodus. 

In every clod a gospel lurks — 
Reveals the workman by his works. 
All truth is attribute divine, 

All error but the soul of crime. 

Lay olf the bias of the youth. 

Seek nature’s God in nature’s truth; 
Where science proves his revelation 
By holy writ of demonstration. 


Mary M. Holmes, Omaha. 

YOUTH’S SPRINGTIME. 

Soon will come the springtime hours. 

The wild birds singing in all the bowers 
As if in praise of the beautiful flowers. 

Oh! the blessed days of the spring of youth, 

With trusting heart that knew no ruth. 

When the world was bright with hope and truth. 

The winds of hope our dreams then fanned 
As we walked together, hand in hand, 

And dreamed of the future promised land. 


jSiBBRASKA. pobts. 


ei 


Our spring and summer have fled so fast, 

And all those dreams are gone and past, 

And the parting day has come at last. 

O’er what has been let us shed no tear. 

Though each to the other may not be as dear, 
As we were that spring of an early year. 

THE SOLDIER’S HOME SWEET HOME. 

Springtime on the Kappahannock — 

Evening twilight softly lay; 

The sun had set in equal brightness 
On union blue and rebel gray. 

As twilight fell the bands of music ' 

From far northland began to play 
The martial air, ‘‘Star Spangled Banner,” 
Answered by “Dixie Far Away.” 

Then at the close one young musician 
Began a sweet and tender air. 

And the love of home that seemed to smolder 
Found a living Are in all hearts there. 

And many a one on that strange country, 

That far away had been caused to roam, 
Went back in memory at the gentle 

Sound of dear old “Home Sweet Home.” 


62 


NEBRASKA POETS. 


Frank Harris, 


Omaha. 


ONE DAY. 

The Rising San, pursuing fast Aurora’s chariot bright, 
Raised his head above the waves of Atlantic’s broad delight, 
And shaking from his blazing locks the ocean’s silvery mist. 
He hastened for the radiant maid he would have wooed and 
kissed. 

The Setting Sun, blood red against a field of ashy gray. 
Plunged his head beneath Pacific’s broad and peaceful bay. 
With anger blushing deep to see before his amorous eyes. 
Ill-favored Night rise up from hidden brakes and clasp the 
prize. 


CHILDHOOD’S FAIRY FANCIES. 

When in childish hours I reveled 
Deep in fancy’s fairy tales. 

When my tears were freely mingled 
With fair Piquette’s bitter wails. 
When Cinderella’s fateful slipper 
Stirred my heart to chivalry. 

Then I thought there were none fairer 
Than these sprites of fantasy. 


NEBRASKA ROBTS, 


G3 


Then, when boyish sports were over 
And the tasks of school were done, 
By the grate fire’s fitful flicker 
These old stories 1 would con. 

Well I knew each tale’s beginning. 
Well I knew each story’s end, 

But in these old, thumb- worn pages 
I found sweetheart, sister, friend. 

When at last, by sweet enchantment. 
Stretched out there before the fire. 
Slumber gently stealing o’er me. 
Slowly rising higher, higher, 

I saw elfin shadows growing 
Out distinctly on the wall. 

Till my tired eyelids drooping 
Slowly closed upon it all. 

Then into my dreams pursuing 

Still those visions came, and grew. 
Till I saw myself a goblin. 

Sovereign o’er an elfish crew. 

So I dreamed my stories over 
Till a loving tender hand. 
Caressing, woke me with the warning 
That ’twas time for slumberland. 


64 


NEBRASKA POETS. 


Florence B. Farnsworth, Beatrice, 

A DREAM OF HEAVEN. 

One night when slumber sent her shower of dreams 
About me as I lay upnu my couch, 

I thought an angel came to me and said, 

‘‘My name is Death, and you shall come with me 

Into the spirit world, and understand 

The things that oft you’ve wondered over long.” 

I rose and followed where he led until 
I found myself above the city’s towers. 

And strains of music floated through the air, 

While in my soul I felt the dews of peace; 

I looked into the angel’s radiant face 
And asked him, “Whither are we bound?” 

“For Heaven,” he said and pointed toward the clouds 
That stole their brightness from celestial hills. 

And soon we stood before a temple grand, 

And lo! I paused upon the marble steps, 

“But is this Heaven? ” I asked; the angel spake: 

“ It is. and thou with me canst enter in.” 

And when we stood within the emblazoned walls. 

He quickly pointed to a painted map. 

And there was pictured all my spirit’s life! 

I saw its doubts, and all its victories — 

And all its sin: But at the top I read 
In golden words, “Forgiven — sin no more.” 


NBBRASKA POBTS. 


03 


As little sunbeams sometimes pierce the shade, 
And rainbow bridges build across the gloom, 
A little faith in God — a little love — 

A little charity to fellowmen, 

And God in mercy keeps the little good, 

And covers all the evil o’er with gold. 


GOD’S GIFTS. 

Ere old Time began his marches, 

Ere the moon and stars had space, 

God a New Year’s gift created 
To give to the coming race. 

Lo, the earth He gave His people; 

Nature lifted her dark face 
At His smile — and at His touching 
Mighty planets swung in place. 

New Year’s gift of love and beauty! 

Kock-crowned heights and circling trees. 
Downward drooping all their branches 
Magnified in troubled seas. 

O’er the dark and heavy waters, 

Beamed a pure and tranquil light, 

And the first day’s sun descending. 
Ushered in the first still night. 

Asa book of pretty pictures. 

Given a child on Christmas day. 

Soon is soiled by careless fingers, 

Torn, and useless thrown away. 


NBBRA.SKA. ROBTS. 


So this pure earth’s fairest places 

Have been touched by sin’s rough tide 
Weary hearts, like tired children, 

Fain would throw this gift aside. 

When its glory had been tarnished, 

And the w^eary sighed for rest. 

When the bravest hearts were sinking 
’Neath the cares of life oppressed, 

God a Christmas present sent us. 

Even Christ, the ^ ‘Prince of Peace,” 
That w^e might have rest in heaven, 
When our toiling here shall cease. 

Though we cannot, like the children. 
Throw this New Year’s gift away. 
Though the skies are often clouded 
And the months are not all May, 

We can try to make it better. 

While we look in faith away 
To the Christmas gift that waits us. 
When shall break eternal day. 


NEBRASKA. ROBTS. 


67 


Mattie Cress Stanchfield, Rushville. 

’ NO ADMITTANCE. 


To the members of the General Conference of the M. E. Church who refused to 
admit women as lay delegates. 

Men of piety, we all admit you to be; 

And believe you follow where duty calls thee, 

But in the conference, we all think you erred — 

Wlmn “Representation” to you was referred 

You denied admittance to women. 

The wives who have cheered you through sunshine 
and rain. 

And helped you through all, the cause to maintain. 

Are now by their husbands left out in the cold. 

And with pomp and disdain are very soon told, 

“ No admittance for helpmates here.” 

The mothers who taught the youth early to pray, 

And strove well to cause them to walk the right way 
Are now by these sons an entrance denied; 

Forgetting their teaching, they quickly decide 

“ No admittance for mothers here.” 

And those sisters, who, with pride and delight 
Saw you nobly battle for God and the right. 

Now in the conference we all think you failed 
When over the doorway this motto you nailed: 

“No admittance for sisters here.” 


es JSfBBRASKA. BOBTS. 

And those daughters of yours, who to you look for 
aid — 

Their trust, and their love you have poorly repaid 
By denying them right in your council to hold 
Equal standing with brothers; they plainly are told 
‘‘No admittance for women here.’^ 

If Mary, or Martha, if Dorcas or Ruth 
Should visit this earth, they would learn the sad 
truth; 

In council of church as well as of state. 

The opinions of men very plainly dictate 

“No admittance for women here.” 

If from church and state this message appear, 

Could Mary in praise, could Miriam sincere. 

Sing songs of the children from bondage set free 
If the sign “No Admittance” before them they see — 
No admittance for God’s women here? 

But the time is approaching, perhaps it is near. 
When before God’s great throne we all shall appear; 
Then truth and justice our cause will maintain. 

For to men and to women our Christ will proclaim, 
“Admittance for all God’s people here.” 

EDUCATION. 

Eoucation, is our watchword; may its truth prevail; 

’Tis liberty’s just heritage, though injustice assail. 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


09 


Keynote of reform ’tis turning musty pages o’er, 

A just law of equity, reform will restore. 

Education is the needful. Sing, world’s orchestra, 

May thy tone — sweetest, purest float through endless day. 

Time developes finer nature; herald the glad refrain — 
Echoed from the gates of heaven back to earth again. 

Education of each station is naught but liberty’s 

Way to mark the dawn of freedom of this best of centuries. 

The seed sown through dreary cycles of trials, anguish, woe, 
’Mid earthquakes or upheavels; growth though sure was 
slow. 

Raise the standard; on to victory! Science delve down deep; 
Search mysteries of nature, thrust thy sickle, reap. 

Reap the sowings, hoary ages ripening golden grain — 
Soul’s, rich fruitage of creation, through progression’s train 

Sing the song of education, bells of progress, ring! 
Orchestra, resound thy music, earth, thy tribute bring. 

THE DYING CHILD. 

Hark! The Savior calls thee child, 

Death dews are sparkling on thy brow; 

Thou’rt tired of pain, of agony wild — 

Thou’rt free from sin, pure, undefiled. 


70 


NBBRA.SKA. POBTS, 


He’ll give thee a crown of light, my child; 

He’ll free thee from death’s alarms; 

Be not afraid of the waters wild, 

He’ll lull thee to sleep in His arms. 

Safely they’ll carry thee, darling, o’er 
To that heavenly home so bright; 
Golden streets to walk forevermore, 
Through days of endless light. 

My daughter, ’tis hard to give thee up. 

Heavenly Father, we implore thee. 

Pass by affliction’s bitter cup. 

Keep us from this sorrow free. 

Or give us help from Thee on high 

To bear and say, ‘‘The load be borne,” 
Our Father, give sweet rest so nigh. 

For hearts by deep affliction torn. 

Our darling’s gone — she is no more 

On earth. In heaven she waits we said. 
Gone — gone! only just gone before; 

Gone — only gone — dead — yet not dead. 


NEBRASKA. BOBTS. 


71 


M. V. Gannon, Omaha. 


WASHINGTON. 

Down the thrilling, sounding centuries for tliese six tliousand 
years, 

Through the corridors of fleeting time, all charged with 
hopes and fears. 

Past dynasties and tyrannies, on Fate's fast heating wings. 
The people struggled upward against potentates and kings; 
Called whatever name that suited, the slave forever knelt 
At the footstool of his master, God but knowing what he felt. 
Every age, and time, and country, had a hero, more than one, 
Till Freedom’s blood was purified in the veins of Washington. 
From frozen polar regions to the equinoctial line. 

The few oppressed the many, who often made no sign 
That the chains were rankling in the fiesh, their cup of grief 
was full, 

Till the dagger reached the tyrant’s heart, the bullet })ierced 
his skull. 

Then Reason fled, and Anarchy usurped her gracious seat. 
And the people prostrate fell once more at a newer tyrant’s 
feet. 

Praise the wisdom of our fathers, England set her hirelings 
on. 

They invoked the God of battles, lo! lie sent them Wash- 
ington . 

Nor any age, nor time, nor clime, since first creation's birth, 
A warrior like thee has given to grace our mother Earth. 


72 


NnBRA.SKA. JPOBTS. 


A sage’s mind, a Christian’s faith, a soldier’s equal poise, 

A foe to base hypocrisy and demagogic noise . 

Thy sword flashed out for all men’s rights to shine o’er land 
and sea. 

And kings grew pale when that bright blade proved freemen 
could be free . 

All hail thy birthday, glorious chief! the field is nobly won. 
And countless millions through all time will bless thee, 
Washington! 

Come forth, O slave of Russian czar! the dawn is in the sky. 
Leap up, O prostrate Pole! and see great Freedom’s banner 
high. 

Green isle of saints and warriors, the looked for hour is near. 
For Freedom’s grasp is growing strong with every passing 
year. 

The suffering black man’s bonds are burst and ceased his 
wailing moan, 

From the tomb of his long travail great Lincoln rolled the 
stone. 

The overseer whips no more, the chain, the lash are gone. 
And Liberty claims all her own in the land of Washington. 
Now, children of Columbia, thine the duty of the day 
To keep inviolate our land we needs must work and pray, 
And fight, if ever foreign foe our starry flag assail, 

On land and sea our ensign free must weather every gale. 
And heaven forefend if e’er again a sacrilegious hand 
Be raised to smite that flag of right by son of our loved land. 
And when our hour at last has come, our earthly task is done. 
Let’s breathe a prayer that every land may find a Washing- 
ton. 


NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


73 


PIO NONO. 

Christ’s vicar true, a grand old man, 
Who has pass’d the years of Peter, 
Still promulgates the church’s plan 
From where God chose to seat her; 
Tho’ waves of passion break around 
The Heaven appointed preacher. 
Divinely sweet, sublime, profound. 

The lessons of that teacher — 

Can any bear desire so fell. 

To point the dagger? — Oh, no! 

The fiend exists not out of hell 
Would harm Pio Nono — 

The gentle Pio Nono, 

The saintly Pio Nono — 

Two hundred million hearts beat quick 
With love for Pio Nono. 

Apostate Kings may persecute 
The Church of which he’s pastor. 
Degen ’rate sons lie still and mute 
As comes each fresh disaster. 

While brutal troopers stall their steeds 
In cells by saints made holy. 

But God remembers wicked deeds — 
He’ll right the wronged and lowly. 
The aged Pontiff lifts his hands, 

And from his harrowed soul go 


74 


NBBHA.SKA. POBTS, 


Prayers tu break the iron bands 
That fetter Pio Nono — 

The humble Pio Nono, 

The glorious Pio Nono — 

Oh! Heaven, for crusade hearts and hands 
To free you, Pio Nono . 

While all “the Powers” seem to desert 
The royal bark of Peter, 

The boats of Christians not inert. 

Go boldly out to meet her. 

8he’s on the seas since Jesus died. 

And many a tempest shook her. 

And many a seaman in his pride 
Ungratefully forsook her. 

She always had a pilot true, 

As now who would not go — no — 

Stood to his post as brave men do. 

As will do Pio Nono — 

The faithful Pio Nono, 

The earnest Pio Nono — 

He’ll keep the vessel off the rocks. 

The skillful Pio Nono. 

He shall not in the Vatican 
prisoner be much longer. 

Though strong the arm of perverse man, 
The arm of God is stronger. 

He’ll raise up friends to right and truth, 
prepared to vindicate him — 


NBBRASKA POBTS. 


715 


Enthusiastic Christian youth, 
Who burn to liberate him — 
Crusaders of the Murray stamp, 
Who pant to lead or follow. 
To quit the council for the camp. 
To right lov’d Pio Nono — 
Suff’ring Pio Nono. 
Prisoned Pio Nono — 
Give me a rifle in the ranks 

That tight for Pio Nono. 


M. A. Brown, 


Kearney. 


IN THE HAMMOCK. 

Summer winds are softly blowing o’er the meadows, thro’ 
the trees. 

And the summer stream is flowing gently on to summer seas. 

Chirp of birds ’mid leafy bowers, and the droning of the 
bees 

Sipping honey from the flowers, bring to me a blissful ease. 

Nature’s melody is blending with the music of the spheres. 

In a harmony unending — falling sofrly on my ears; 

Lightly coming, swiftly going, fancies light as fairies’ tears 

Whisper to my heart, o’erflowing with the mem’ries of the 
years. 


NBBRASKA BOBTS. 


7e 

Now my bark is floating lightly, ’tween the banks forever 
green, 

Where the sunbeams, e’er so brightly, glint the waters with 
their sheen; 

Just beyond, the mists are lifting from the peaks that rise 
serene, 

And my bark is gently drifting out into the vast unseen. 


WHEN MORNING COMES. 

The twilight gathers deep and dark; 

The shadows, falling cold and gray. 
Blot out the sunset rays which mark 
The ending of another day. 

The darkness broods upon my soul, 

The evening chill my spirit numbs. 
And yet I know the clouds will roll 
Far, far away — 

When morning comes. 

I sit within my darkening room, 

And watch the shafts of light go out; 
My spirit wanders in the gloom; 

My heart is filled with fear and doubt; 
And yet I know that hope springs bright 
When nature beats her sunrise drums, 
And every shadow of the night 
Will flee away — 

When morning comes. 


NHBRA.SKA POBTS. 


77 


Then oh! my «oul, be brave and strong! 

Let not the shadows cast thee down; 
I’ll fill my heart with love and song, 

And sinile at rude misfortune’s frown. 
For well I know that light will shine, 

At dawn, when waking nature hums, 
And all the joy shall then be mine, 

And all the world’s — 

When morning comes. 


Kate Cleary, 


Hubbell. 


THE CORN. 

When the merry April morn 
Laughed the mad March winds to scorn, 
In the swirl of sun and showers . 

Were a million legions born; 

Ranked in rippled rows of green, 

With a dusky ridge between, 

O’er the western world was seen. 

The great army of the corn. 

And when in May-time days. 

The buttercups’ gold blaze 
Firefly-like flashed o’er hill and hollow 
And the pleasant prairie ways; 


7S 


NBBRASKA POBTS, 


Ejich battalion from the sod. 

Flags a-flutter and a-nod, 

Nearer heaven, nearer God, 

Crept to proffer perfect praise. 

And when the June-time heat 
Over all the land did fleet. 

The melody of meadow larks 
In mellow" music beat 
Martial measures, to beguile 
The royal rank and file, 

That kept growing all the while 
To the sounds serene and sweet. 

When the fierce sun of July 
Rode relentlessly on high. 

And in the creeks the water bright 
All drop by drop ran dry; 

And, as from a furnace mouth, 

The hot winds of the south. 

Racked the corn with cruel drouth. 
It seemed that it would die. 

But the nights benign and blue 
Brought the blessed balm of dew. 
And baptized the corn in beauty 
Ever fresh and ever new; 

Till in amber August light, 

•Twas so golden that you might 
Fancy Midas touched the bright. 
Tender tassels it out- threw. 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS, 


79 


Now the sweet September’s here, 
And the plover pipeth clear, 

And each shattered sheath of satin 
Holds a guerdon of good cheer; 
And the corn all ripe and high. 
Taller far than you or I, 

Standeth spear-like to the sky. 

In the sunset of the year! 


Collin R. Davidson, Omaha. 

CREDIT. 

Who made the West Land ? Why God made the plains. 
The rivers, the hills and the great mountain chains; 

Each low-lying valley, each pine-crested butte — 

But the cities were made by the ‘‘Burlington Route.” 


80 NEBRASKA POBTS. 

Ida M. Chase, 

A SUMMER’S EVENING. 

Cool grew the day and still; 

O’er vale, and hill and dell, 

Soft shadows gently fell; 

The bright flowers softly slept. 
From out the maple tree 
The thrushes’ melody 
Was softly borne to me; 

The heavens gently wept. 

The bright moon upon high. 
Cleaving the depths of sky, 

Sailed gaily, swiftly by; 

The trees rocked to and fro. 
The clouds, all robed in white. 
Beneath the moon’s pale light. 

Grew strangely, wierdly bright; 
The waters murmured low. 

O, evening, calm and bright. 

Half shadow and half light. 
Sweetest part of day and night; 

Thy soothing charms so sweet 
I cannot understand; 

But well I know God’s hand, 

F^or our best good has planned. 
That evening hours be sweet. 


Grafton. 


NEBRASKA ROBTS. 


SI 


John Cupp Lowe, 


Omaha. 


NEBRASKA. 

When right shall predominate over the wrong, 

And the states are all classed by their birth, 

We’ll sing in loud praises a beautiful song 
For the crowning of 59’s birth. 

No great feast was held when she came to this world; 

The sweet seraphs didn’t usher her in. 

Nor was the white banner of peace then unfurl’d. 

Nor was heard any great battle’s din. 

She peacefully came when the world was asleep; 

The poor Red Man, alone was awake. 

PTe saw the broad plain that he never could keep 
Of the cup of proud Union partake. 

When, marching in line, all the banners pass by, 

Of each state, by their worth being led. 

We’ll gaze on with rapture — exultingly cry 
^‘Our Nebraska is right at the head.” 

TO AN INVALID. 

Your cheer lit up your little room. 

And made the half-blown rose to bloom. 

That sat upon the window case 
In a sweetly scented water’d vase. 




NBBRASKA. POBTS. 


The snowflakes playing hide-and-seek, 

And passers plodding most knee deep, 

Gave contrast to your sweet abode 
That made more light your heavy load. 

When first I saw you on your cot, 

I thought it was the saddest lot 
That all creation could have giv’n 
To one who ’gainst it so had striv’n. 

But since I’ve conned it o’er and o’er, 

Those thoughts will never enter more; 

For they are saddest who must strive 
From morn till night to keep alive. 

No cares have you like us below. 

But thoughts like yours all Heavenward go; 
Most mortals’ thoughts ne’er run so high 
Until their time has come to die. 

Give thanks to God that you may be. 

From this to all eternity, 

A lamb of Him, like those of old 
That Christ has gathered in the fold. 


NBBRASKA POBTS. 


S3 


LOVE AND TRUTH. 

When youth was in its early bloom, 

And all iny thoughts were sweet perfume 
Arising from an artless youth, 

I loved a maiden fair as Ruth. 

It then my whole existence seemed, 

And in her sight I ever dreamed 
Of Love; but from her sight so long 
My love seems but a transient song. 

Last night, by some means I contrived 
To dream of her. My love revived 
As does a fading, dying flower 
Before a straggling April shower. 

It seemed she spoke those loving words 
Which oft are cooed by mating birds, 

And have been sung in every land 
Since first this loving race began. 

Ah, sweet encroachment on my sleep, 

I would that Morpheus might keep 
That lovely spell on me alway. 

That I from Truth may never stray. 

For Love and Truth go hand in hand 
Through life. Inseparably they stand 
Before the Highest Potentate — 

One doomed, the other meets the fate. 


XBJ3RASKA POETS. 


S4 


Katie Nehf, 


Sutton. 


OUR MOTHER. 


(February i6th, i88o.) 

A stranger has entered our dwelling 
And carried its treasure away, 

What we most prized and best cherished 
Is taken from us today; 

Nothing can ever replace it, 

Ne’er shall we know another, 

My eyes are filled with blinding tears. 

For Death has taken our mother. 

All that this life holds dearest. 

Cannot one half repay 
The love and the care she cheerfully gave 
Her children every day. 

We can search the wide world over. 

But we ne’er will find another. 

Who will be to us so good and true 
As our dear angel mother. 

Her wisdom and loving counsel 
Could soothe our every fear; 

And happiness smiled on our little flock 
When our guardian angel was near; 

So holy the life, so pure the heart, 

I deem that there lives no other 
To take the place that the stranger, Death, 
Left when he took our mother. 


NEBRASKA POETS. 


85 


Chas. J. Barber. Omaha. 

THE BEACON STAR OF HOPE. 

How oft the memories of the past, 

Like shadows, flit before us fast. 

With here and there a glimmering ray 
Of light — perchance some festive day; 

Or ar bright gleam of .school day joys 
When we were happy girls and boys. 

And in the far off past we see 
The flickering rays of childhood glee, 

When round our mothers’ knee we played 
And home was happy — none had strayed; 

And gaily wandering up life’s vale 
We knew not that its joys would fail. 

And culled sweet flowers by the side 
Of rippling brooks in gleeful pride. 

Then o’er the sweet and flowery green, 

Of youth and hope’s bright silvery sheen, 

We roamed in unalloyed delight 
With plighted loves and visions bright. 

But when we’d passed youth’s flowery lane. 

And gained the borders of the plain 
Of manhood’s future field of hope. 

Where each must empty handed cope 
With wealth and age and practiced hands — 


so NBBHASKA BOBTS. 

With rogues and thieves and cunning bands 
Of schemers who infest the way, 

And often lead the pure astray. 

Then wdth a long and anxious glance, 

We halting, viewed the broad expanse. 

And traced life’s weary winding ways — 
Some led to wealth and better days; 

Some wound along the babbling rills 
That seem to murmur of life’s ills; 

Some led where flowerets sweetly bloom. 
But further on w^ere veiled in gloom. 

And there were paths so hard to trace. 

We scarce could tell their destined place; 
And some meandered by the lake. 

Among the lillies and the brake; 

And there w'ere highways o’er the plain 
That met and then diverged again. 

And intertwining o’er the land. 

Uniting youth with hopes so grand, 

And noble manhood in his strife. 

To hoary age — the end of life. 

Weaving a chain of joy and pain. 

All over life's, broad and checkered plain. 

A clear and sparkling throne of light 
Far in the distance dazzled bright. 

And all were striving tierce and bold 
To gain that land of fame and gold; 


NBBRASKA. ROBTS. 


S7 


Some sacrificed all passing joys 
To gain those fleeting earthly toys. 

And even in contentious strife 
Would sometimes take each others’ life. 

And when one faint and weary fell 
They lingered not to say farewell, 

But onward toward ambitious ofoal 
They rushed a wild disordered whole; 

All sought the beacon star of light, 

And strove to gain it with their might. 
But when hope faded then they fell. 

And perished in ambition’s hell. 

And there were those who turned aside 
To paths of beauty seldom tried, 

While others wandered in the swails 
And soon were lost in sorrow’s vales; 
Some took a new and nearer route. 

And gained life’s summit with a shout. 
While others looked with anxious care 
And earnest wished that they were there; 
A few had gained the heights of fame 
And earned through strife a noble name. 
But most had fallen of that band 
Before they reached the golden land. 

And as we viewed that human throng, 
And heard the curse and happy song. 

The cries, and groans, the victor’s shout, 


8S 


NEBRASKA. ROBTS, 


The widow’s prayer, the armies’ route; 

The gentle strains of pure delight, 

Were mingeled with the bloody fight; 

The music wafted on the air, 

Bore the sad wailings of despair; 

The bugle’s note, the warrior’s tread. 

The mother weeping for her dead; 

The joys and sorrows of a world 
Seemed on the morning breezes hurled. 

And while we lingered on the spot. 

We realized our future lot 
Would soon be cast among the throng, 
With those who had been seeking long 
For wealth and fame and honors proud — 
Yet few among that motley crowd. 

Had realized their early dreams 
But foundered on ambition's schemes. 

Then forth we stepped among the throng. 
With resolution firm and strong; 

The road was rough, but we must try 
To win our way to honors high. 

And all along the way since then, 

We’ve seen the schemes and tricks of men, 
And heard the scoffs and jeers of those 
Who in presumption oft impose. 

Upon the old, the poor and meek, 

The heavy hearted, lame and weak. 

Whose hopes are ebbing low with care 


NBBRASKA ROBTS. 


89 


And sink beneath the load they bear; 
And fragments of the human race, 
They perish without name or place 
Upon the sacred roll of fame 
That flings to earth a vaunting name; 
And all because they failed to mould 
Their earnest efforts into gold. 

Let those profound in sacred laws, 
Who labor in Jehovah’s cause. 

Tell why, if God be good and kind 
And knew the sorrows of the mind. 
And the besetting care and strife 
That oft would hover o’er this life. 
He in the great creative plan 
Should make man subject unto man, 
And give to him the power and will. 
With jeering taunts the soul to chill; 
For scorn to those with sorrow given 
Does not inspire a trust in Heaven, 
But only adds unto the dart 
That pierces deep the troubled heart. 
And casts a dark and mystic gloom 
O’er life and hopes beyond the tomb. 


90 


NBBHA.SKA BOBTS. 


YOUTH. 

Do you not know some fairy bower 
Where oft you’ve spent a happy hour — 
Where roses bloom and ivies twine — 

A fond retreat at evening time? 


Go visit now that Eden fair, 

The flowers are gone, no vines are there; 

The lilies and the blue bells gay, 

By wintry winds have passed away. 

Our youth, so happy, pure and bright 
Is like that arbor of delight. 

But glowing visions like the flowers 
Will pass away in Autumn showers. 

OUR PRAIRIE HOMES. 

How happy they who do reside 
Along Missouri’s flowing tide; 

Or on the gently rolling plains. 

By winding streams and shady lanes; 

Who westwnrd came from childhood homes 
From old familiar spires and domes, 

From hill and dale and greenwood wild. 
Where oft they sported when a child; 

From every tie that’s to them dear — 

From every state both far and near — 


NBnRA.SK A ROBTS, 


91 


From every nation on the earth 
Where has been told Nebraska’s worth, 
They came and left their native land 
And gave to friends the parting hand; 
With white sails bending to the brf^eze 
They bravely crossed the stormy seas. 
And quickly o’er the iron rail, 

And farther still by Indian trail. 

Until they gained this fertile shore 
And viewed its rolling prairies o’er, 

And by its rivers, lakes and streams 
Have realized their early dreams; 

And now have happy homes and friends 
In towns and cities, dales and glens; 
And round the fireside’s cheerful blaze 
Their children frolic in their plays. 


Hattie Lake, Homer. 

WINTER. 

What is more fair in nature’s realm. 

Than thou. O wintry king? 

When thou alone art at the helm. 

Thy snowy wreathlets swing 
Across the heaven’s broad blue dome, 

And cover vale and hill. 

The cottage and the palace home, 

The river and the rill. 


92 


NEBRASKA ROBTS. 


Thy snowy robes fit emblems are 
Of all the good and pure, 

And teach us that such beauties rare 
Below may not endure. 

The babbling, listless, flowing brook 
Is stilled at thy command; 

All nature seems a fairy book 
And thou the fairy’s wand. 


It is, oh, Winter, in thy reign 
That gentle memories come 
Across life’s vast and changing plain. 
Of childhood’s happy home. 

We sit beside the glowing hearth 
And gaze into the deep. 

Till, as it were, to all the earth 
We are as fast asleep. 

We see the scenes, we hear the tones. 
Now long since passed away; 

We’re near again beloved ones. 

We knew in childhood’s day. 

And fancy wafts us, on the breeze. 

The songs we used to sing, 

When ‘^playing house” beneath the trees 
And in the old rope swing. 

And in the echo of the years 
When shades of evening fall. 


NBBRASKA JPOBTS. 

Hear gently mingling witli the tears 
Our loving parents’ call. 

What wonder, then, Oh, wintry king, 
We bless thee that thou art, 

When thou such Ausions to us bring. 
And leave them in the heart'^ 


A. W. Chase, 

MARRIED OR SINGLE? 

Marriage, if real, is Eden, 

To live single, ‘-Paradise Lost;’^ 
Married, not mated, is evil; 

God only can tell of its cost. 

Mingling of spirits congenial, 

A blending of natures divine; 

Rare are the flowers — the children — 
Created in images. Thine. 


The soul is lonely that’s single. 

Searching the world for a mate; 
Hungering, starving, uncertain, 

If bitter or sweet he its fate. 


93 


Grafton. 


94 NBBRASKA. POBTS. 

Mismated — sailing the ocean — f 

Tempestuous ocean of doubt — 
Masking two souls from each other, 

A desert within and without. 

Inharmonious conditions 

With nature’s harmonious plan, 

Sad are the flowers — the children — 
Sad for the woman and man. 

Happily mated and married, 

■ ' ’ Will two loving hearts entwine. 

Each one will vie with the other. 

For love, home and children divine. 


Elia W. Peattie, 


A PRAYER. 

Oh, God! Spare us the plague! 

So dear is life here under these sweet skies; 
So dainty delicate these dewless dawns; 

So friendly is this pungent wind 
That blows from singing fields of corn. 

And prairies where the aster bursts to bloom. 
So tender are the nights with low-hung stars. 
And near, familiar moon! And all the days 
Are days of peace. The peace is full of love. 


i 


Omaha. 


NEBRASKA POETS. 


90 


We tend our children here within our homes. 

They are so sweet — dear God we love them so! 

We love the safe monotony of our small lives, 

The toil that comes with dawn, the rest at night, 

The friends we have, the very spur of need — 

All these are dear — all these are part of life. 

The trees with friendly branches cry to us 
To stay with them and scent the growing earth; 

The earth herself gives plenty for our wants. 

And calls: “Ye are my children; live! love! laugh!” 
Nothing invites to death. 

The blood sings in our veins — it leaps and sings. 

The poetry of nature and of books 
Invites us still to live, to learn, to teach. 

The kisses of our lovers plead with us 
To drink deep of those earthly joys, dear and well 
known — 

Strange and remote the joys of heaven seem — 

The tasks we meant to do are still undone. 

The little cairn of deeds we meant to raise 
To mark our memory, is still unbuilt. 

Oh, frustrate not this growth of goodly things! 

Blow not upon this thistle down of life! 

War is far olf. Blight comes not near. 

Oh, God! spare us the plague! 


NEBRASKA POETS. 


90 


Carl Smith, Omaha. 

WE THREE. 

The wild bird’s nest dips a quaint salute to the summer 
wind as he passes, 

And the half-ope’d flowers dance a minuet to the rustling of 
reeds and grasses, 

And the waves roll on in a jolly sweep to ferry him over 
the river. 

For his path is the path of a merry heart, and he laughs on 
his way forever. 

The green leaves bow as he hurries on, as though they 
opined that he knew them, 

And the long limbs scrape on the cottage roof as he cheerily 
whistles through them; 

And he sings to me, dear brother, the songs that we used to 
sing together. 

When we lay in the shade, and heard the voice that came 
with the windy weather. 

And we were three, we two and the wind, for he was a play- 
mate merry. 

With his dreamy songs that he learned in the court of some 
wonderful woodland fairy. 

And he sings them still in a gentle strain, and the early 
faith he is keeping. 

As he kisses the flowers on the hillside there, where you for 
years have been sleeping. 


NBBRA.SKA POBTS, 


97 


And we are three, as in days of old, for the trio shall never 
be broken, 

Though the time may be when I come to yon with a boyish 
smile as a token; 

And the hearts of none will be as true, though today they 
may dearly love us. 

As the one dear friend who ever will sinof his lullabv sweet 

O *y 

above ns. 


BEDTIME TALES. 


It used to be, long time ago, 

In days of boyhood sweet, 

'When you were my big brother Joe 
And I was little Pete, 

That wdien you took me up the stair 
And stowed me into bed, 

I turned, when I had ^'said my prayer,” 
And “Tell a Tory,” said. 

And you, old boy, what w’^ondrous things 
You told of talking bears. 

And ponies that flew by^ on wings. 

And djinns with golden wares, 

And princesses in silken gowns. 

And Robin Hood’s bold scnmps. 

And poor young men who built great towu»s 
By rubbing magic lamps! 


9S NBBHASKA. POBTS. 

And soon that darkened room of ours 
Became a fairy hall, 

And everywhere were gorgeous flowers, 
And diamonds over all. 

And glittering lights from stone to stone 
E’er seemed to dart and leap, 

And strains of music floated on, 

And then — I was asleep. 

Ah, dear old boy, 1 cannot hear 
Those tales you told again. 

That time is past now many a year, 

And both of us are men; 

But memory comes and dwells with me. 
And visions rise to view, 

And there are times I think I see 
Those fairy scenes with you. 

For there is one, a little tyke. 

Who, when the night is new. 
Commands that fairy army like 
His papa used to do; 

And there beside his crib 1 greet 
Those scenes of long ago. 

When I, you know, was little Pete 
And you were brother Joe. 


NEBRASKA. POETS. 


09 


Lucy Martin Bullock, South Sioux City. 

DECORATION DAY. 

Adown the sunny, dusty street 
A little child was trudging on, 

One dimpled hand a banner grasped, 

The other filled with lilac bloom. 

N 

‘‘Why haste thee so, with flag and bloom ? 

The crowds are coming, little lass, 

With banners waving, drums abeat — 

Stay here with me and let them pass.” 

‘‘Oh, no!” she cried, “my flowers may fade, 

1 must be there before they come. 

On papa’s grave this flag I’ll place. 

And then I’ll wait till they are done.” 

Oh, soldier’s child! Thy tender heart 
For father’s sake the honor craves. 

Assured that others, bearing blooms 
Will decorate anew his grave. 


Wave, flag of freedom, well thy folds 
Were born along to victory’s heights 
By heroes brave, whose graves today 
We decorate ’neath stars and stripes. 


lOO 


NBBRA.SKJI POBTS. 


For long ago, in spring-time fair 

Beneath that flag they marched away, 

Undaunted hearts, to fight for right. 

They bore their part in freedom’s fray. 

Oh, Decoration day so fair. 

With buds and blossoms for each tomb; 

Oh, day of days thy sunshine bright 
Bathes every mound, dispels the gloom. 

Anew we gather where they lie. 

Each soldier’s grave is marked the same. 

One silent band where rank is naughty 

Their names are green in memory’s chain. 


Mae Connor Walworth, Spaulding. 

IN MEMORIAM. 


My Hother. 

A spirit })ure has passed away, 

A soul has sought its God, 

And mourning hearts bow humbly down 
Beneath the chastening rod; 

Her weary pilgrimage is o’er, 

And as the clouds at even’. 

She faded on from day to day 
And found a home in heaven. 


NEBRASKA POETS, 


lOl 


No pain is on the meek brow now, 

No suffering in the tone; 

But the sunlight of her loving smile 
For aye from earth has gone. 

Too saint-like in her gentle life, 

Too good and pure for earth, 

She seemed as some fair star which shone 
To mark a new time’s birth. 

The '“‘Bowl is broken at the well.” 

The weary found her rest. 

And pain and sorrow never came 
. In the bright home of the blest. 

The fond hearts dare not murmur now. 

Tho’ a strong tie is riven, 

Her spirit, ransomed, purified. 

Has found its home in heaven. 









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